


Conflagrate

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Combustion [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual!Sherlock, Asexuality, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The point is, John is content. Which means it's just about time for him to completely cock things up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conflagrate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daunt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daunt/gifts).



As it turns out, Sherlock likes to be kissed. John finds this fact surprising (though possibly he shouldn't). Sherlock also likes to be touched, but that much John already knew. Why else would Sherlock make a habit of ordering John to retrieve his phone for him, from Sherlock's own suit jacket (while he's bloody _wearing_ it)? 

But the ease (not to mention frequency) with which Sherlock demands physical affection still surprises John. Sherlock's persistent lack of libido does nothing to prevent him from dragging John down onto the couch for a snog at the slightest provocation.

Sherlock likes John's bed better than his own. John's not going to complain about that. His bed happens to be quite fond of Sherlock, too. Or rather, when it comes to John's bed, he'd just as soon have Sherlock in it.

It's the simple things, really.

Not everything is simple, of course. John's not sure Sherlock even knows the word 'simple' except as a description of other people's brains. Despite the strange romantic shape their relationship has morphed into, their lives are still as off-balance and unpredictable as ever.

For one thing, no matter how interested John might be, Sherlock is never patient enough for sex when his mind is engrossed elsewhere. A particularly challenging puzzle can mean a dry spell of days to weeks at a time, because Sherlock insists there's no point going through the motions if he can't give John his full and complete attention. He might miss valuable data. 

But he's always game in the moments between. And as weeks slip into months, filled with the usual minefield of cases and conundrums, John finds that (so long as he keeps his distance when he sees a particularly remote glint in those pale eyes) Sherlock will almost invariably drag John off to bed if John so much as hints at being in the mood.

Almost nothing changes in the day-to-day routine. Sadly (if predictably), being in a romantic relationship does not make Sherlock Holmes a more considerate flatmate. Never mind that he's the one who declared them a couple in the first place. He still leaves human remains and experiments in awkward places. He still plays his violin at three in the morning. He still refuses to make tea or coffee, even though he damn well knows how. He's still brilliant and mad and irritating and rude. 

He's so beautiful John's chest hurts sometimes just looking at him.

Then Sherlock will meet his eyes and insult his intelligence, and drag John on a chaotic dash across London. And John will forget how beautiful Sherlock is until hours later, when they're laughing and safe and _home_ , and Sherlock is yanking their clothes off and reminding John how good it feels to be alive.

They haven't (strictly speaking) fucked. But John's not in any particular hurry. If he's going to be honest, he doesn't much care if they never go farther than blowjobs and handjobs, or that one memorable time Sherlock got him off without even once touching John's dick. 

All in all, John's pretty content with their arrangement. Relationship. Whatever the fuck he's supposed to call it.

The point is, John is content. Which means it's just about time for him to completely cock things up.

\- — - — - — - — -

The stairs swim a little beneath John's feet as he follows Sherlock up to their flat. It's the twisting kick of exhaustion and adrenaline. The lingering thrill of a chase, slow to wear off even a full hour later. John's head spins with giddy relief, with success, with Sherlock's proximity as he watches Sherlock shed his coat and scarf.

"How did you know there was a third accomplice?" John asks. His voice is bright with curiosity and admiration, and he can't stop staring at the way Sherlock stands in the dark living room, barely illuminated by the glow of streetlamps from outside.

"Later," is all Sherlock says, and then he's across the room and his hands have found John's face. His mouth is warm and insistent, and John opens for the kiss and reaches for Sherlock with greedy hands. He holds on tighter than he should (probably leaving bruises), and he breathes a quiet groan into the kiss when Sherlock's arm slips around his waist and drags their bodies flush together.

It's been almost a full week since Sherlock touched him this way. The case was a challenging one. John didn't begrudge Sherlock his focus, not when he was on a trail that would save lives, but that's over now. Now John gets to revel in having Sherlock's hands on him. He grins at the knowledge that they've got all night to do as they please.

They don't make it up the stairs to John's bed. It's all they can do to navigate the short hallway to Sherlock's room.

"Jesus, yes, do that again," John groans, his hips stuttering forward despite his efforts to hold still. "Christ, Sherlock, your mouth." Because Sherlock's mouth is incredible. They're neither one of them as naked as John would like, but it can't be helped. He's not going to interrupt the things Sherlock is doing with his tongue just because one trouser leg is still tangled around his ankle and Sherlock is still half draped in his unbuttoned shirt.

Sherlock's obviously in a playful mood, because now that they're here he's taking his time. Teasing John to the edge, stopping him just short of the endgame, not letting him come.

John's not begging yet, but at this rate he will be soon. From the sparkle in Sherlock's eyes, he knows it, too.

But Sherlock takes pity on him. Teasing strokes turn firm, and Sherlock's cheeks hollow as he draws John deeper into his mouth. He swallows when John comes, and traces senseless patterns over John's thigh with his free hand. John tries to keep his voice down, but he fails utterly. He shouts Sherlock's name, and though his eyes are closed, he can picture it clearly enough, Sherlock wearing that smug, self-satisfied smirk as he draws off John's spent cock.

Sherlock shifts up the bed to settle beside him, and John opens his eyes. Sherlock's smile isn't the smug one John expects. It's the other one, the one that's all warmth and fondness. 

"That," John gasps, still breathless, "was amazing."

"Yes, I know." And now there's a hint of a smirk, but there's still the warm affection, too. 

John grins, and something new itches beneath his skin. He's not sleepy, despite the late hour and the adrenaline crash and the truly fantastic orgasm. He wants more, wants something else, wants to _touch_. Of course he _always_ wants to touch Sherlock, but this is different. This is eager and curious, and John grins wider.

Instead of burrowing in against Sherlock's side and drifting to sleep, John kisses him. Before he closes his eyes, he sees a brief furrow of confusion pinch Sherlock's brow. But Sherlock kisses back with the same enthusiasm as always. He even tries to follow when John backs off to fight free of his remaining clothes.

Then another kiss, longer, deeper. The kind of kiss that speaks of unambiguous intent. John's hand curls lightly around the base of Sherlock's throat, then slips lower, palm and fingers spreading flat over the smooth, heated skin of Sherlock's chest. 

John is always allowed to touch Sherlock. The welcome is clear and constant between them. But as John lets his hand drift lower, he knows this is different. He knows Sherlock will understand what he's asking, as clearly as if John knew how to find the words.

His hand stops low on Sherlock's stomach, and John breaks the kiss. 

Sherlock watches him with considering eyes. Gauging, assessing, as calm and collected as ever. He looks perfectly at ease, and there's no hint of confusion on his face now.

"Can I?" John asks. 

"Of course you can, don't be daft."

John snorts and shakes his head. " _May_ I, then?"

Sherlock's expression softens in a way John doesn't expect, and something almost cautious flashes in his eyes. 

"John, do you remember what I said? Before?"

John remembers vividly. He remembers the first time Sherlock kissed him, and the second. He remembers explanations that even now he can't entirely wrap his head around. And he remembers what Sherlock said when John (groggy with orgasm) asked if he could ever return the favour.

_You must promise me something, first_ , Sherlock had said. _You cannot be offended if I find the process tedious. It won't be a judgment on your relative skill_.

"Of course I remember," John says now. "And I promise." 

The cautious shadows in Sherlock's expression slip away, leaving nothing but unguarded affection in their wake.

"Then yes. You may."

\- — - — - — - — -

It's twenty minutes later, and far too late at night for tea, but John is pulling on his pants anyway.

"John."

"Do you want anything while I'm up?" He considers for a moment, then tugs his trousers on, too, shifting his weight from foot to foot and nearly jamming the zipper in his haste.

" _John_." 

He doesn't look at Sherlock, and he doesn't bother searching for his shirt. Who knows where it landed, and anyway the flat's not that chilly. It's a warm enough night. John shuffles towards the door, his stomach twisting tight and unhappy.

"I won't be a minute," he says, and closes the door harder than he means to behind him.

He's not sure what time it is. Two? Three in the morning? He doesn't know what time they first walked in the door, but it was well past one. Maybe later still. Amazing how much of the night can fly past when you're chasing a counterfeiter, a hit man and a surprise accomplice around London.

Seems like it can't possibly be the same night now, as John stands alone in the kitchen, half dressed and staring at a kettle that refuses to boil. He stares so long and so hard that he almost jumps when quiet footsteps startle him from behind.

"I did warn you."

There's an awkward lump of indecipherable emotion in John's throat, making it difficult to respond. His fingers, curled around the edge of the counter as they are, tighten until the knuckles turn white.

"Yes," he finally manages. "You did. More than once, in fact."

"But you're still irritated with me."

"No."

"Don't dissemble, John. You're rubbish at it."

"That's not true at all." John is still staring at the kettle. It's still sitting there silent and unhelpful. Sherlock has moved closer now, John can tell from the nearness of his voice when he speaks.

"You're rubbish at dissembling with _me_ ," Sherlock amends.

Well. That's true enough. Besides, if John had any delusions about convincing Sherlock everything was peachy, he wouldn't have retreated to the kitchen in the first place. No, he's not thinking strategically right now. He's not thinking much at all. He's just waiting on his cup of tea as silence falls between them and stretches painfully to fill every corner of the cluttered kitchen.

"You promised."

Sherlock's voice is quiet, but he sounds calm. He sounds calmer than he has any right to, considering the embarrassed disappointment chilling John's limbs and heating his face. He sounds calm and steady, as though John should be just as unbothered as he is. Christ, how is John supposed to be calm _now_ when they just—

When John couldn't—

He's being stupid, or at the very least unfair, but he can't seem to brush the clinging sense of humiliation from his skin.

"John." Sherlock sounds less calm now, but it doesn't make John feel any better. "You _promised_." 

Of course he did. What a stupid promise to make. He should have known better—should have known _himself_ better than to make a promise he'd be completely incapable of keeping. John needs to apologize, but his defences are up so high he doesn't dare open his mouth, lest he do or say something hurtful (something more hurtful than the way he just ran from Sherlock's bed and is even now refusing to look his flatmate in the eye).

Because Sherlock does have feelings to hurt, much as he pretends otherwise. The last thing John wants to do is trip over Sherlock's feelings and make this whole mess even worse. 

John misgauged. He promised he wouldn't take it personally, and yet here he is. Taking it so personally his insides are knotting up on themselves and his limbs feel shaky. But how's he supposed take it any other way? It's _sex_. Sex is as personal as things get, even when it's sex with his mad, asexual flatmate. 

John's head is starting to pound, and the silence isn't helping.

"I'm not offended," he finally manages. "I'm just being stupid, and it's my own bloody fault. You're not—" But when he turns, his words crash to an abrupt stop.

The kitchen is empty. There's no sign of Sherlock. The door to the front stairs is ajar (not as though they ever close it when they're home), and John doesn't need to check down the hall to know Sherlock has left the flat. 

John turns back to the kettle, and thumps his forehead against the cupboard above. .

\- — - — - — - — -

Sherlock returns just after sunrise. John hasn't slept.

He has changed into fresh clothes. And he drank no fewer than six cups of tea before switching over to coffee for a change of pace. He didn't want to risk nodding off.

His apology sits heavy and unrehearsed on his tongue, and his whole body is a knot of unhappy tension. He's had several quiet hours to review all the ways he biffed it last night, and before Sherlock can greet him (or wander past without acknowledging him, which John would thoroughly deserve), John blurts the first words that find his tongue.

"I fucked up. I'm sorry."

Sherlock pauses halfway through removing his scarf. He regards John with an inscrutable look before folding the scarf over the arm of the couch. His hands move with singular focus as he unbuttons and removes his coat as well, and John sits silent and impatient, hands clasped together atop the paper-scattered living room table.

"It's not entirely your fault." Sherlock moves further into the room, but instead of approaching John he keeps the narrow table between them, positioning himself beside the window and peering down the street. "I should have factored in the frailties of the average human mind when conducting my analysis. You may not possess the highest intellectual faculties, but you've proven rational enough in the past. I assumed, perhaps wrongly, that this would be sufficient."

John instantly bypasses whatever offense he might take at Sherlock's dismissive critique of his intellect, as he realizes what Sherlock is actually saying.

He realizes with a jolt—with the kind of mental gearshift that comes with discovering one is not the centre of the universe after all—that he let Sherlock down. Sherlock had faith in John to process the new, complicated variables of their relationship. He was relying on John to be rational and coherent and honest.

And John let him down.

Oh god, and John thought he knew what guilt felt like. He sits stunned now, and the twist of emotions in his chest is agony. An apology's not enough. How is he supposed to make this right?

Sherlock is still staring out of the window, long fingers twisted in the curtain fabric and face lit by the diffuse light of a cloudy morning. 

"Would you prefer I pretend?" Sherlock asks.

The question stabs at John like an accusation, and the roil of nausea it sets off is so violent he nearly throws up.

"No!" he gasps, stumbling to his feet and knocking his chair over in the process. He nearly trips but somehow keeps his footing. " _God_ no, Christ, how can you— Why would you even think of that?" 

Sherlock could do it, too. He's an incredible mimic. He can cry on command, smile, panic, laugh. He might be good enough to fool even John if he set his mind to it, and the thought aches violently behind John's ribs. He's staring at the floor. He can't look at Sherlock right now, he _can't_.

"I don't want that," he says, forcing his voice calm. "I don't _ever_ want that from you."

But when John forces himself to raise his eyes, Sherlock is watching him, and the look on Sherlock's face isn't quite so cryptic as before.

"But you already knew I'd say that," John realizes. Sherlock inclines his head without smiling, then turns his attention back to the window. As if there's even anything to see out there.

There's not. John spent enough of the past five hours staring through that window to know.

"You think yourself an ineffectual lover because you failed to bring me to orgasm." Sherlock renders the observation with a quiet calm that makes John twitch.

And oh. Good. Through all the guilt and denial, John is still capable of feeling embarrassed. That would be reassuring if it weren't so bloody unpleasant. Worse, he's got no idea how to respond to what feels like an accusation. He's got no defence to the fact that Sherlock is right, that those are exactly the thoughts he's had running circles through his head all night. But he also knows he can't admit as much aloud. 

He doesn't need to admit it aloud. Sherlock knows him too well. Even in his peripheral vision, Sherlock must be able to read John's wordless concession like it's printed in neon across his forehead. 

"For god's sake, John." Exasperation, frustration, perhaps an imagined tinge of hurt (or maybe not so imagined after all). "If getting off were the only way to enjoy an experience, the world would be an even more miserable place than it already is. Orgasms are not the be-all and end-all of human satisfaction."

John's face flushes, and he's not sure what makes him say, "But they are nice, though."

"Are you dissatisfied?" Sherlock asks. Direct. Abrupt. Startlingly intense.

"No. God no. You're amazing. You're…" Not perfect. Perfect would be someone who didn't leave eyeballs in the microwave or use the toaster for mould culture experiments. But John doesn't want perfect. He wants Sherlock. "You're exactly what I need."

"But not _everything_ you need."

"No, wait. Stop. I didn't say that." He didn't think it, either. For all the uncertainty and frustration and other messy emotions swirling around his head these past few hours, _that_ is not a thought that's crossed his mind. He needs Sherlock. Full stop. What else is there?

But Sherlock's face has pinched into the look he wears when he's thinking hard. Narrowed eyes, lips pressed thin, brow crinkled with concentration. He looks like he's thinking through something vexing and unpleasant, and even before he opens his mouth John knows he's not going to like what Sherlock has to say.

"Any romantic relationship between us will inevitably involve a certain disparity in physicality." His voice is analytical, but his posture is tense. "If this disparity poses too much of a challenge, perhaps we should go back to the way things were before and avoid further entanglements."

John's insides seize up at the very idea, and everything freezes. He can't make his throat work to voice the instant denial in his chest. He can't think past the sense of something like panic twisting beneath his skin. For a moment, he can't even breathe because even his lungs are too shocked to do their damn job.

"Clearly you need time to consider my proposal," Sherlock says. He turns from the window and makes his way past the kitchen and towards the hall beyond. "I'll leave you to it." 

John hears Sherlock's bedroom door click softly shut, and he still can't figure out how to breathe.

\- — - — - — - — -

That afternoon, Lestrade calls with a case. John still hasn't figured out how to fix the mess he's thrown himself into. 

There's no awkwardness in Sherlock's manner when he emerges from his room and announces they have a crime scene to visit. It seems the fresh diversion of a new case is enough to distract Sherlock from the uncomfortable suggestions he left hanging between them.

Or possibly he's simply guarding his reactions so well John can't read beneath the surface. Either way, John's not particularly happy as he follows Sherlock out of the door and into a cab.

The case is not nearly as diverting as either of them hopes. It takes Sherlock seventeen minutes to unravel the only viable sequence of events, and another three to pinpoint the true culprit. The victim's half sister, in London for the weekend. Desperate to pay off gambling debts. No one noticed the dishwasher detergent spilled in the corner. Sherlock ridicules Lestrade and his team more ferociously than usual before disappearing through the door and departing in the next available taxi.

Without John.

"What'd you do, then?" Lestrade asks as he escorts John away from the crime scene.

" _Me_?" 

"Must've been worse than usual. Can't remember the last time I've seen him in a mood this foul."

Right. Because John needed to feel worse than he already does.

"Hey, take it easy." Lestrade's voice sounds uncomfortable, but the hand he sets on John's shoulder is oddly reassuring. "I didn't mean anything by it. It wasn't that bad."

"No," John mutters. "It was exactly that bad." 

Lestrade gives him a strange look, confusion and concern. He looks indecisive for a moment, then shakes his head and gives John's shoulder a squeeze.

"Want to talk about it? I'm off duty in ten minutes, we could grab a pint." 

John blinks at him and tries not to stare. It's a kind offer. It's also not the detective inspector's usual purview, which means John must look like hell to worry him so badly. But he can't fathom talking about this with anyone, never mind Lestrade, and he belatedly shakes his head.

"Thanks, but um. I'm fine. Really. Everything's fine." 

Lestrade looks sceptical, but his hand falls away from John's shoulder. He doesn't protest when John turns north towards the nearest intersection without so much as a polite goodbye.

John considers signalling for a taxi, but he chooses to walk instead. He needs to think, and while Sherlock may think better in a cab, John does better with his feet moving and the sounds of London in his ears. 

By the time he's approaching Baker Street, the sun is starting to set, and John has turned the whole mess end over end so many times that his head is starting to pound.

He let Sherlock down.

It's not his inability to get Sherlock off that makes him a failure. Rationally, he knows this, has known it all along. No, that's not where he fucked up. He's a failure for not delivering on his promise—for not meriting the faith Sherlock clearly put in him.

John has thought all of this through in painful detail. He's noted the way his body reacted with actual, physical pain at the suggestion that he and Sherlock go back to being just friends (if that's even the word for what they were before). He's considered how completely wrapped up in Sherlock Holmes his own life has become.

He's still thinking in circles as he turns the corner onto Baker Street and something hits him. Something new and so blindingly, _stupidly_ simple that he can't believe he didn't realize before.

Thank god he's nearly home, because suddenly John needs to be where Sherlock is _now_. His pensive pace shatters into a run, and when he reaches the front door he almost fumbles his keys. 

"Come on, come on, come on," he growls, impatient with the lock, with the seconds it takes him to get the door open. He rushes the stairs in a noisy clatter and hurries into the living room, half terrified Sherlock won't even be here.

But yes, there. By the far window. Sherlock stands half-pivoted towards John, bow held loosely in his right hand, violin secure between his chin and shoulder. The fingers of his left hand are slack around the neck as he stares at John in obvious bewilderment.

Now that he's here, John freezes. Desperation still bubbles in his veins, but all he can do is stare back, a wide-eyed, dumbfounded expression limping across his face.

Sherlock's eyes dart restlessly, taking in everything, intuiting god knows what. Sherlock's expression shuts down in a way that sets off all kinds of warning bells in John's head. Has he reached the wrong conclusion? Has he reached the _right_ conclusion and decided he doesn't approve? John is suddenly terrified that no matter how this conversation goes, it's going to be a disaster.

Sherlock opens his mouth as if to speak, and John can't allow that. He can't let Sherlock say whatever he's thinking before John gets this out.

"I'm in love with you."

Sherlock's jaw drops and his eyes flash wide. He shakes his head, clearly confused (wrong conclusion, then, maybe there's hope after all).

"I… wait. What?" 

"I'm in love with you," John repeats, more deliberately this time. Something in his chest pulses warmly, and this shouldn't feel like a revelation. It shouldn't be the first time he's actually said the words. "I'm in love with you. And I'm an idiot. And maybe those two points are related, I don't know, but I'm sorry." He pauses and swallows past a tight throat. "I'm sorry I let you down."

"Let me down?"

"I disappointed you."

Sherlock doesn't contradict him. What's the point of denying it when they both know John is right? 

John can't fathom _ever_ rendering Sherlock speechless, but it's possible he's done it, because Sherlock doesn't respond as the quiet of the living room starts to turn stifling. He turns away, towards the corner behind his armchair where his violin case sits. His movements are precise as he tucks the violin into the case and dusts away the rosin with a small cloth; as he loosens his bow and slots it into place; as he closes the case and clasps it securely shut.

The silence is disconcerting, but when Sherlock finally faces him, John sees familiar intensity glinting in his eyes. 

John's helpless to keep his distance, but as he crosses the room and plants himself at the periphery of Sherlock's personal space, he keeps his hands stubbornly at his sides.

"I can't promise it won't happen again. But if you'll still have me, I'll try to do better."

"You're _not_ upset," Sherlock surmises, still sounding confused.

"I'm not upset with _you_ ," John clarifies. "I'm upset with myself for being an insensitive sod, but that's nothing new." A corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks at that, though it's not quite a smile. "Sherlock, I promised. And I meant it. But… this is going to be more difficult than I thought. I don't know what you want."

Sherlock breathes an exasperated sound, and rolls his eyes dramatically.

"John. Have you _ever_ known me to refrain from demanding what I want, exactly when I want it?"

"No." John feels suddenly stupid (even more stupid than a moment before, which is a feat he's surprised he can manage). "Not for anyone." Not even when he should, though John doesn't voice that particular thought aloud.

If Sherlock were dissatisfied, of course he wouldn’t hold his tongue. Can it be that simple?

"I am such an idiot."

"Of course you are."

And there it is. A smile, small but undeniable, and such a relief that John finds himself smiling back. He's an idiot, but he's still here, and so is Sherlock, and maybe they'll be all right after all.

"Are we okay, then?" he asks, because he doesn't dare assume. He needs to hear Sherlock say it.

When Sherlock doesn't instantly reassure him, John's smile falters. When Sherlock's eyes cut down and away, John feels fresh terror surge in his chest.

"You don't want to be with me anymore," John whispers.

"Of course I still want to be with you. It's not that." 

Instant relief, though renewed confusion rides hot on its tail.

"What, then?"

"John." Sherlock hesitates. Sherlock never hesitates (or nearly never), and it's so startling John has to remind himself to listen when Sherlock finally continues. "You know I don't feel things the way other people do." He's still staring at the floor. John shakes his head.

"But you do _feel_ , Sherlock. We both know it, you don't have to be all coy about it."

Sherlock raises his eyes, and they're pale and wide and very, very distracting.

"But you're in love with me," Sherlock says.

"Yes."

"What if I can't—?"

"I thought stupid questions were my territory."

Sherlock's eyes narrow into a startled glower. 

"Sherlock." John steps closer now, because he thinks he understands. He doesn't touch. Not yet. But he moves into Sherlock's personal space and tilts his head just enough to meet Sherlock's eyes. "You care for me," he observes.

"Yes," Sherlock concedes. 

"You care for me," John repeats, unnecessarily perhaps but the point bears repeating. "And you're the one who decided we should redefine our relationship."

"The decision was not entirely—"

"I'm not arguing semantics here," John interrupts. "The point is, you decided."

"Yes."

"And do you plan on seeing anyone else while you're involved with me?"

"Of course not," Sherlock snaps. He looks taken aback by the question. In fact, he looks like the thought makes him physically ill.

"Then it's fine," John says. "It's all fine. I can deal." He wouldn't mind hearing the words straight from Sherlock's mouth, of course. He'd feel a hell of a lot better if Sherlock _would_ say them, in fact. 

But for all his eccentricity and mystery, for all his mercurial mood shifts and inexplicable behaviour, there are moments when Sherlock Holmes is very nearly transparent.

His disappointment when John broke his promise. His surprise at John's declaration. The way he's watching John now with bright, bewildered hope in his eyes. So many clues that point to more than a fleeting fascination. Sherlock has feelings, much as he'd probably prefer to lock them down and pretend otherwise in order to keep that fantastic brain uncontaminated. 

Sherlock has feelings, and John hurt them when he let Sherlock down. 

Maybe that shouldn't be enough for him. Maybe it's _not_ enough for him. John is figuring this out as he goes along, after all, and he doesn't have much to go on. But it's enough, at least, for now. 

"You're really all right with this?" Sherlock still sounds sceptical, and John can't blame him for that. "Because, not to be monotonous, but you _have_ said something to that effect before."

"I know." And finally John lets himself touch. Just one hand, cupping Sherlock's jaw, making sure he has Sherlock's uncompromised attention. "I'm not going to make any stupid promises this time. And I'm not saying I won't fuck up again." Because he probably will. He's John Watson, and occasionally he's an idiot. "But the point is, I'm not going anywhere, all right? I don't want you to think I plan on giving up when things get difficult."

"You mean when _I_ get difficult," Sherlock scoffs. But the scepticism is dispersing, leaving something warmer in its wake, and John finds himself smiling.

"You're always difficult. I mean this. Us." He leans up and presses a quick, chaste kiss to Sherlock's mouth. He doesn't close his eyes, and so he knows Sherlock doesn't either. When he settles back on his heels, Sherlock's gaze searches his. Sherlock's hands drift to curl around his hips, fingers twisting idly in the fabric of John's shirt.

"You'll stay with me," Sherlock says, and it sounds like a question. 

"I'm not going anywhere," John repeats.

Then Sherlock leans down, and this time it's a different sort of kiss. It's the kind of kiss where John's fingers get tangled in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock's hands move in restless patterns, as though trying to memorize all of John at once. It's a kiss that brings an eager flush to John's skin, as he nips at Sherlock's lower lip and hums a low groan against Sherlock's tongue.

"Bed?" John suggests, breathless, when they finally come up for air.

"Certainly."

Sherlock takes John's hand and drags him across the living room, onto the landing, up the stairs. He closes the door too loudly, and then John is shoving him farther into the room, knocking him over onto the bed without ceremony. Sherlock quickly regains his centre of gravity, and uses his reclaimed balance to reach for John and drag him impatiently down.

They kiss. They scrabble at clothes. They get hopelessly tangled, and then have to pause in order to extricate themselves from sleeves and buttons and an especially stubborn sock. It's a mess, and it's perfect, and John can't suppress the laughter that bubbles up in his chest when Sherlock throws his shirt across the room.

But that's all right, because they're in this together, and Sherlock is laughing, too. Warm and easy and utterly perfect.

"I love you," John says, surprised at how easily the words fall from his tongue.

Sherlock smiles and reaches for him, brushes his thumb across John's lower lip.

"I know."


End file.
